After gathering all the fake sympathies, Leo left office.
“Why do these jobless idiots use preposterous pickings from the most ornate lexicon while describing my life?!!” he thought out aloud, much to the amusement of his co-passengers in the city bus. Then he laughed at his own indulgence.
Leo & his life were objects of commentary by a few people scattered around the globe. He didn’t know how they could keep such a close eye on his life. Every thought, every action, every movement of his was tracked and written about in a weblog somewhere. Leo had a fleeting recollection of seeing the log somewhere. Not that he intended to do something about it; it was good to see people having interest in his otherwise insipid existence. But he wondered about the amount of involvement these people were having in his life – were they just disinterestedly noting down his life on a computer screen somewhere, or were they making things happen. He wondered whether that face he thought about was ‘inserted’ in his memory, whether that argument he just now had was ‘orchestrated’, and whether all his predicaments from the previous night’s party were also a product of some other mind on which he was deliberately made to ponder upon? He had once attended a seminar on writing somewhere, and had learnt that authors regard their creations as human as they themselves are. Couldn’t it be that a character may be described so perfectly that he may ‘come alive’?
Leo shivered, and pinched himself to reaffirm his reality.